


Scent

by someonestolemyshoes



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: KageHina - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Scent Kink, Smut, University AU, kags gets off to hinata's sweat smell he's gross i'm gross rc is gross, kinda??, reallycorking did more art and i am shameless, that should be a tag, we're all gross and we all love it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 17:43:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8455840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonestolemyshoes/pseuds/someonestolemyshoes
Summary: He puts some shorts, some boxers—Kageyama doesn't look at these, knows by the feel of them, the silky smooth fabric beneath his fingers that they don't belong to him—and a couple of shirts into the machine before he reaches the bottom of the pile, and there, buried beneath everything else, is Hinata’s team jersey. Kageyama stares at it. It's...damp, still soaked in sweat from their game the other day, and it smells, smells so strong even from it’s spot, innocent and unassuming, in the bottom of the basket. Kageyama’s eyelids flutter, and his cheeks grow warm.





	

**Author's Note:**

> sorry I'm a shameless disaster and so is [reallycorking](http://reallycorking.tumblr.com/) this is all her [fault](http://reallyporning.tumblr.com/post/152630219204/when-you-and-your-spiker-are-inseparable-and-now)
> 
> Anyways it's the second day of nanowrimo and I am counting everything I write in my word count, so I was especially motivated to get this done asap and move onto something else which is why it's a bit rushed but also, I didn't want to spiral into long-ass """"drabble"""" fic hell (again) so anyway here's wonderwall

Kageyama huffs, jamming another handful of laundry into the machine. Stupid Hinata, he thinks to himself; stupid Hinata, won’t even do his own stupid laundry. Kageyama fishes out a pair of socks that most _definitely_ don't belong to him—too small, too dirty—and throws them in the drum with the rest of his, and _Hinata’s,_ clothes.

It's not like Hinata _can't_ do it himself, because he can, he most definitely can, has done multiple times when Kageyama wasn't there (successfully, Kageyama assumes, because nothing was shrunken or dyed or otherwise destroyed when Kageyama returned). So he can't understand, really, why Hinata would continuously, week after week, shove all of his _crap_ in Kageyama’s basket on laundry day.

He puts some shorts, some boxers—Kageyama doesn't look at these, knows by the feel of them, the silky smooth fabric beneath his fingers that they don't belong to him—and a couple of shirts into the machine before he reaches the bottom of the pile, and there, buried beneath everything else, is Hinata’s team jersey.

Kageyama stares at it.

It's...damp, still soaked in sweat from their game the other day, and it _smells,_ smells so strong even from it’s spot, innocent and unassuming, in the bottom of the basket.

Kageyama’s eyelids flutter, and his cheeks grow warm.

He looks around. The laundry room is empty—always is, this time of night, and with no eyes to watch him, Kageyama reaches into the basket and hooks two fingers in the collar of the shirt.

It spins slow and steady in the air where he holds it, rumpled fabric twisting to display wavy black letters, peaking out between folds of pale blue.

Kageyama takes it in both hands, stretches it out to read _HINATA_ where it sits big and bold across the back. There’s a big number 10 there, too, because Hinata refused to play in anything else; it’s _lucky_ , he’d said, when everybody asked about it. _I’ve never won in anything else._

Kageyama stares at the number, and the name, and the little discolouration at the armpits and down the spine, and then he scrunches it up, brings the fabric right up against his nose, and he sniffs.

Kageyama has never done drugs, not more than drinks at a party and a joint or two when the night is lively, but he thinks this is what a real high must feel like.

The smell makes his head _spin_. It should be bad, he thinks, should probably gross him out, turn him off, but every breath he drags in flips his switches, lights him up, and before Kageyama knows it he's rock hard and leaking in his sweats.

He drops the shirt to his lap.

His reflection in the machine is wobbly, bent out of shape, stretched and distorted so much it barely even looks like him, but Kageyama can still see the blow of his eyes, his pupils sucking up space like black holes and he can see the colour of his cheeks, bruised ruddy in the sharp light from the overheads.

He fists the fabric tighter in his hands. He should wash it, he should, because Hinata will only complain if it ends up back in Kageyama’s pile.

But Hinata is out of the flat until morning and the shirt smells so stupidly, disgustingly good.

Kageyama slams the washer door closed and starts it up.

It takes some manoeuvring to hide his boner in the corridors, and an awful lot of strategic basket placement. He hides the shirt in the bottom, beneath his washing powder and the bottle of conditioner, which he half hopes will mask the smell of it so nobody else catches the stench.

It's a public safety concern, he swears. Not a jealousy thing. Not even a little bit.

In their bedroom, Kageyama scoops up the shirt and tosses the basket back into it’s corner. Hinata’s bed is rumpled, sheets and pillows spread haphazard over the mattress and it lies cold, empty. Kageyama drops to sit on his own bed and stares at the mess, shirt clutched in his fists.

Even their shared room, Kageyama realises, smells an awful lot like Hinata. More so than it does of himself, he thinks, or maybe Hinata’s scent is just more noticeable because all he can smell is a mix of his soap, his shampoo, a little of the detergent he _should_ be washing his clothes with, and sweat. It’s not like...gross sweat, dirty old man sweat that bites bitter and tangy against your nose. It’s just...Hinata sweat. And it’s _nice_ , so nice Kageyama pulls the shirt up to his face and inhales again.

Kageyama flops back against his pillows. He’s still hard, tenting his sweats and there’s a patch of the fabric that is growing dark and damp. Kageyama glowers down at himself.

It’s not the first time he’s gotten... _excited_ over his best friend, and it certainly won’t be the last and, Kageyama thinks bemusedly, palming over himself, it’s probably the most appropriate place it’s ever happened to him. It’s not in the gym, it’s not in class, it’s not in the corner store at seven in the evening when every student _ever_ is doing their shopping and Hinata is lurking in the condom section and pretending he isn’t there. It is, at least, in his own room, with nobody else around, and a little thrill runs up his spine at the notion that this time, he doesn’t have to ignore the problem.

Kageyama rolls to his side to face Hinata’s empty bed. The shirt curls loose over his arm, and Kageyama draws it up against his head until the fabric is muffling his breaths. He sucks a long, shaky breath through his nose and squeezes himself over his sweats.

It’s not just the smell that does it for him. It’s the image of Hinata yelling, screaming his elation and punching his fists in the air. It’s the way his muscles swell beneath his skin, and it’s the tension in his neck as he cries out their victory—it’s the sinews of his neck, the line of his jaw, the fire of his eyes when they meet Kageyama’s across the court. It’s a cinema-quality memory playing over and over again in the forefront of his mind; Hinata running for him, jumping at him, wrapping fatigue-trembling limbs around him and drowning him in the smell of his sweat-slick skin.

Kageyama digs a hand beneath his waistband and huffs out a sigh. He won’t last long, he knows, not with Hinata’s jersey pressed to his nose, and it’s been a while since he gave in to himself anyhow, so Kageyama’s gut is already growing hot and tight at the feel of his own fingers wrapped around his cock.

He takes another inhale, drags Hinata’s smell into his lungs like smoke and it fogs him, mists his brain until all that remains is _Hinata_.

Maybe, in some distant parallel universe, he wouldn’t need Hinata’s used jersey to get himself off. In some kind, forgiving world, he’d have Hinata himself spread on the mattress, hot and heaving, and he’d be able to touch him, smell him, _taste_ him in whatever ways he wanted.

In that universe, Hinata would moan at the nuzzle of Kageyama’s nose against his neck. He’d whine, all needy from the barest touch, and he’d weave shaking fingers into the back of Kageyama’s hair to hold him against his skin. And Kageyama would take in the scent of him; a little musky, a little sweet, the kind of smell that shudders through your lungs and melts your brain until it leaks out of your ears and he’d rolls his hips, then, painfully slow against Hinata’s, just like he’s doing into his own palm right now.

 _Fuck_ , he would smell so good. It’d be strongest right at his collar, in the dips a grooves the bone leaves against his shoulders where sweat pools wet and shiny. Hinata would keen if he touched him there, arc his back up, press his shuddering chest into Kageyama’s touch.

Kageyama pants into the shirt.

Hinata might whisper his name, then; ‘ _Kageyama_ ,’ he’d say, hot on his breath, ‘ _Tobio, p-please, more_ ,’ and Kageyama would be an idiot not to oblige.

He’d kiss him with trembling lips, dance them over his skin. He’d lave a trail down his chest with his tongue, nipping and biting and soothing each welt and Hinata would arc into his every touch, fingers clutching, desperate and needy at the back of his head, fisting his hair, begging and pleading for Kageyama to touch him right where he needs it.

And Kageyama would be able to feel him—the heat, the hardness, digging up against his hips, stomach, chest as he sinks lower against him.

He would look up at him, then, and Hinata’s eyes would be darker than Kageyama has ever seen them. _Swimming_ , pupils swollen with all he is feeling, with lust and want and a tiny living light of something soft, something kind, something Kageyama doesn’t dare name, even in his deepest fantasies, because he can’t stand knowing that’s all it is: a wish, a dream.

Hinata would bite his lip, and Kageyama gives a hard tug to his cock when he thinks about it. He’d bite, pull the plump red flesh between his teeth and he’d press so hard the skin bruised white.

 _‘Hng, T-tobio_ ,’ he would gasp the moment Kageyama settled between his legs. He’d smell _incredible_ up close, and Kageyama would nuzzle at him over his boxers, press against the fabric and breath. _‘That’s so gross,’_ Hinata would say, but it’d be all high and breathy and Kageyama knows it’s only to hide his embarrassment. Kageyama wouldn’t care; he loves him, loves every part of him and he’d tell him so, sinking his fingers into the hem of his underwear and sliding them down the length of his thighs.

Kageyama pants a few breathes against Hinata’s shirt. He’d smell like _this_ , only stronger, more fresh, and he’d smell a little like his soap, too and Kageyama would love every moment of having his face between his thighs, tasting his skin, savouring the scent and the flavour and the sounds the roll from his tongue as Kageyama stroked him through.

Heat winds in a tight knot low in his stomach and Kageyama shudders, nipping the fabric of Hinata’s jersey between his teeth. There’s no need to keep quiet—he’s alone in the flat with only this hot, horny Hinata in his fantasy, nobody there to catch him—but it’s always good practice and Kageyama bites a moan at the back of his throat.

His hand jerks faster, tugs himself with a strangling grip, and he’s so, painfully close, light burning against the backs of his lids as he imagines Hinata’s long, keening moans, when the bedroom door clicks open and feet tick across the wood.

For a moment, nobody says anything. Kageyama doesn’t dare open his eyes; all he can imagine is Hinata, surrounded by the friends he’s _supposed_ to be staying the night with, standing in the doorway and staring right at him with one hand in his pants and the other pressing Hinata’s gross, filthy jersey to his face.

He’d rather just die, right here, right now.

And then Hinata clears his throat, and Kageyama winks one eye to look at him.

“I, uh,” Hinata says, “I forgot my phone charger.”

Hinata’s face is _burning_. His cheeks are cherry red and puffed out, and he keeps darting his eyes from his bed to the wall socket where the charger sits, still plugged in, to the window, to Kageyama and back again.

“Fuck,” Kageyama says. It comes out misty, a little wilted, and Hinata flinches at the sound of it. Belatedly, Kageyama drags his hand from his sweats and shoves Hinata’s shirt under his pillow. “Well hurry up and get _out_ , dumbass!”

Kageyama groans and digs his face into his pillows, listening as Hinata unplugs the charger and he waits for Hinata to close the door on him—both physically and probably metaphorically, too—but there’s no sound, just the squeak of Hinata’s shoes as he shuffles from foot to foot by his bed.

“Was that,” he says, and Kageyama groans louder to drown him out. “Was that my _jersey?”_

“No.” Kageyama rams the peaking fabric further under his pillow and out of sight.

“It is!” Hinata’s voice rings louder, shriller, and Kageyama can picture him pointing, long accusatory finger jabbing in his direction. “It _is_.That’s...kinda gross, Yamayama.”

“You’re gross,” Kageyama says. His voice is muffled by the plush of his pillow but Hinata must hear him nonetheless, because he gives an indignant squawk and Kageyama hears the tell-tale stomp of his foot.

“Nuh-uh!” He says. “I’m not the one...doing _that_ to _your_ sweaty shirts.”

Kageyama rounds on him. His face feels embarrassingly hot, burning, but he glares Hinata right in the eyes anyway.

“It wouldn’t _be_ sweaty if you’d do your own damn washing!”

“That’s-that’s not the point! Don’t change the subject, _Pervy_ -Yama.”

Kageyama glares a little longer, then flops back onto the bed. Hinata is right - and no amount of subject-changing will save him now. Kageyama has never before wish for the world to just...just open up and swallow him whole quite as much as he does in this moment.

And even through his immense, immeasurable embarrassment, Kageyama is still hard, straining where he’s pressed to the mattress. As if things weren’t bad _enough_.

“Can you just go,” Kageyama moans.

“What, so you can _finish_?”

“Yes, Hinata, so I can finish. So I can go back to being a gross, disgusting person in peace.”

Hinata keeps on dancing between his feet. There’s a question on his tongue, Kageyama can feel it; he always has that same expression when he’s biting something back, all wide-eyed and tight lipped, shoulders high and fists clenched like whatever he’s thinking is about to burst him at the seams if he doesn’t say it first.

“Spit it out,” Kageyama snaps. Hinata tugs his lip between his teeth.

“Are you gonna keep using my shirt?”

Kageyama growls, face _flaming_. If he looks anything like he feels, he’s a stop light, burning scarlet. He reaches under the pillow and pulls out the jersey—the smell of it wafts through the air—and he almost moans at the loss of it when he tosses it at Hinata.

“Take it and _go_.”

Kageyama digs his face back into his pillows. Again, he listens and again, Hinata doesn’t move. Kageyama wishes he would just leave already, even if it’s to go tell the whole world what a pervert his roommate is, but Hinata stays still and silent and Kageyama grumbles into his bedding.

“I didn’t,” Hinata starts, quiet, “I didn’t say you _couldn’t_.”

 _That_ comes as a surprise. Kageyama knows Hinata isn’t as innocent as he looks—he’s seen his internet history, his shopping basket, empty condom wrappers in the bin after nights he’s spent away—but never, not in a million, trillion years did Kageyama expect him to be even remotely okay wit Kageyama rubbing one out with nothing but his dirty team jersey for company.

He rolls his head on the pillow and squints up at Hinata.

“Who’s the pervert now?”

“Still you!” Hinata rings the shirt in his hands (he’s probably ringing some of the sweat out as he does, and Kageyama, weirdly, doesn’t think he’s okay with that), looks down at it and then, after a moment’s deliberation, tosses it back to the bed. It lands in a heap over Kageyama’s face. “I’m going now.”

Kageyama drags the shirt away to watch Hinata leave. He doesn’t fully understand what just _happened_ , but Hinata doesn’t seem to be mad at him which, he thinks, is about as positive as this situation is going to get. _And_ he still has the shirt.

When Hinata gets to the doorway he stops again. Kageyama watches a flush of pink crawl up his neck and settle heavy and vibrant at the tips of his ears, and for one long, horrible moment, Kageyama thinks he’s going to turn around and stay.

“Have fun!” He says eventually, and then he slams the bedroom door closed behind him.

Kageyama waits a few moments to make sure he’s gone, and, when the flat remains blissfully silent, rubs a hand down his face and reaches once more for his dick.

It doesn’t take him long to get back in the mood. The same touches, the same thoughts, Hinata’s jersey squeezed in close to his face; Kageyama works himself faster in his slacks and groans into the fabric, eyes rolling back in his skull.

He comes when the Hinata in his fantasy does. Except, where Hinata is loud, thrashing and whining with trembling thighs and restless hands, Kageyama is quiet save for the smallest, lowest moan rumbling up from his chest, muffled against Hinata’s jersey. He spills in his sweats, warm and wet over the back of his hand, and he strokes himself through his orgasm with tiny, sporadic  twitches of his hips against his palm.

Kageyama rolls onto his back. He’s panting, spent and satiated, and he tosses Hinata’s jersey in the general direction of the laundry basket and throws an arm over his eyes.

The bedroom door gives a weird, jerky rattle. Kageyama peeks below his forearm at it, holds his breath, but the door doesn't move again.

It doesn't, but Kageyama hears a very distinct mewl from behind it, cut off halfway through and proceeded by a couple of stifled, heavy breaths, the faintest slap of skin on skin, and one final soft _thunk_ against the door.

He could get up. He could, stride across the room and slam the door open and call Hinata out on being just as much of a perv as he is, _worse_ even, for getting off all quiet and sneaky, listening to _Kageyama_ go at it, but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t get up at all.

  
Instead, he slaps a palm over his face to cover his blush and fights back the swell of something hot and heavy in his chest and the weird, wobbly smile weaving across his face.

**Author's Note:**

> get this out of my s i g h t 
> 
> (also! as a side note: those empty condom wrappers are because hinata is a posh-wanker if he does it in the bedroom so he doesn't risk messing up his sheets or his clothes, he is too gay for kags to sleep with other people)
> 
> (also!! thank u for any comments/kudos/bookmarks etc, and feel free to join me on my tumblr @ someone-stole-my-shoes and cry with me about kagehina 24/7)


End file.
